In the afternoon a concert by Rachmaninoff with, at last, a Russian programme, a modern one, no less: Rachmaninoff, Scriabin, Medtner. It was magnificently played, but badly chosen. When I went into the green room, which was full of people, Rachmaninoff received me very oddly: he graciously extended his large, soft hand but did not interrupt the conversation he was having with some gentleman or other. I could have been offended by this, but later I thought: three years ago I had been tactless, even if legitimate, in criticising his approach to Scriabin. Now he is afraid I might make further inappropriate strictures.